


the fury: drabbles & extras

by nymja



Series: the fury [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternative POVs, Fic extras, Multi, Side Story, Tumblr Prompt, Written by Request
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2020-06-02 03:52:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19433374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: drabbles, side stories, and extras that are set in the 'verse of "the fury."1: hot pie invents (and falls in love?)2: sansa's pov for That Dragonpit Scene3: arya, before the beginning4: podrick's poor eyes5: davos reads a raven6. starks, before the wedding7. map of the stormlands8. arya, a new squire9. podrick, rumor mill10. ronald, fuck that guy11. bruno, play dead!12. andrew, dreamweaver13. brienne, a crude girl14. podrick, fucking mead15. rusty horse, hm. (witcher crossover and complete crack)





	1. Hot Pie: Pretzels

**Author's Note:**

> little side stories/drabbles set in the fury verse. some of these might make it in to the main fic, some might not. probably most of them (if not all) are going to be if there's tumblr requests for anything.
> 
> #1  
> hot pie, set sometime after ch. 17

One of Gendry’s apprentice blacksmiths, the one that’s been coming around more and more, looks like she’s real tired. So Hot Pie passes her the usual–this flaky, curved bread he might call…curved bread? It kinda looked like a crescent moon, so…moon bread? That could work.

She takes it, tearing off a chunk with her teeth and chomping it before saying anything. As she does so, Hot Pie watches. Her arms flex underneath the thick leather all the smiths wear around her forearms. She must be really strong, he wagers. Maybe not as strong as him, but she could probably lift barrels of wine. He likes that about her. Her face is all smudged up with soot and her hair is always wrapped up in a scarf, so he can never tell what color it is.

“Got more?” She grunts, brushing the flaky bits that fell off on her dirty tunic. 

“Oh! This one!” He says, excited, as he pulls out a tray. “The dough came out a little harder than usual, so you can try it for free.”

For the first time, the smith’s apprentice gives a grin, dirty fingers careful not to touch any of the other ones. She picks it up, inspecting. “What’s it supposed to be?”

“A stag’s head. Why, don’t it look like one?”

“It looks like a badly done knot.”

Hot Pie sighs. “At least let me know if it tastes good.”

The smith nods, taking a bite. It makes a loud ‘crunch.’ She rolls it around in her mouth while Hot Pie waits with bated breath.

“Well?”

“I think it’d go better with ale.” She lifts up her hands, bits of the stag’s head in her palms. “Maybe smaller, too. So it don’t get all broken up when you try it.”

He nods. “Guess all I got to do is think of a name.”

She holds the pieces thoughtfully. “Pretzel?”

Hot Pie wrinkles his nose. “What’s that?”

“The name, you idiot.”

“What’s it even mean?”

“Little arms, ‘s how you say it in my village round Bronzegate.”

Hot Pie thinks. Looks at the tray in his hands. Looks at the smith. Then the tray. 

“Nah,” he decides, sullen. “Ain’t nobody gonna want to eat arms.”

“I would,” she says with a roll of her shoulders. “I like all the stuff you make. ‘S why I keep comin’ over even though you charge too much.”

Hot Pie’s eyes go big. 

“Anyway,” the smith says, tapping her closed fist against her chest a few times until she lets out a burp. “I’d better get going. Save me one of them moon breads for after I’m done, would you?”

She leaves without another word. Hot Pie just watches her go, then stares at the stag-head-dough-biscuits. 

Is he in love?


	2. Sansa: The Dragonpit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a fic meme/fic prompt on tumblr: someone else's POV for the power move/dragonpit proposal. suuuuper mild spoilers for a future arc im on the fence about including, lol, so you'll probably be alright reading it :'D
> 
> 2: sansa's POV for the latter half of ch. 14

When they were younger, Arya wasn’t able to hide _anything._ It had humiliated Sansa as a child, the way she would just spout off whatever she was thinking, no matter what those thoughts were or who they were too. Back then, Sansa thought more than once her Lady was better behaved. When she was particularly annoyed, she would tell Arya so. 

A lot has changed since then, for both of them. But as they go toward the dragonpit and Arya becomes increasingly still and unresponsive, Sansa thinks that maybe there is still the girl who would bare her teeth when she needed to get her way. Which she usually did.

 _Deny Arya anything, and it became her heart’s desire,_ their mother used to say. 

Sansa is counting on it.

As their retinue approaches the pavilion, she’s not immune to the stares. Daenerys’ cool disdain is something she is already well-acquainted with, the Dragon Queen unable to put on her normal courtly mask in Sansa’s presence. While Sansa wishes she had played that hand better, and regretted Tyrion’s eventual fate because of it, it does nothing to curb the grim satisfaction she gets when Daenerys tries to smile at her like a subject but can’t. 

If anything, it’s the Salt Queen’s blatant hostility that makes Sansa look away. She doesn’t know Yara, never will except for on the opposite side of a field, but she knows Yara cared for Theon. That Theon cared for her. And for his sake, Sansa allows herself this one regret, the one thing she wishes could have gone differently. 

Still, Sansa keeps posture straight, her chin high. Good posture is important in a dance, and she’s found herself interesting partners. Sansa glances at the Baratheon banners, and is not surprised to see its Lord openly gawking at her sister. Her lips purse a little in a resigned sort of humor--if they’re compatible in areas beyond a lack of discretion, then there truly is someone for everyone.

Beside her, Arya looks as she always does. Her thumbs are hooked in the belt she wears around her waist, her eyes are trained ahead. But Sansa has felt this same, raw energy around Arya before--the beginning of the Long Night. She hasn’t been able to parse if this means Arya’s afraid or ready to kill something, but maybe those emotions aren’t fully separated within her wild sister.

Sansa takes her seat as the head of the Starks, and before she’s fully smoothed her skirts she sees a blur of grey and blue. Her head snaps up just in time to see Arya take the empty seat next to Lord Baratheon, and her eyebrows raise despite herself. Sansa presses her lips, taking in what she can, the tells that aren’t spoken.

Arya’s hands are bunched into fists where they rest on top of her thighs. Her back is ramrod straight. 

Gendry’s expression goes soft as he looks over her sister’s cuts and bruises, pausing on her lips and Sansa sighs. A master of subtlety, this new Lord Paramount was not. He nods at her, and Arya turns to look. The Starks’ gazes meet, and there’s that small furrowing in Arya’s brows that tells Sansa all she needs to know. That her gamble this morning had paid off.

“Might as well piss on him,” Sandor says from where he says to her right. He’s taken up the position where the Starks’ sworn shield would stand in both the wedding ceremony and this Council. Sansa’s not sure how this came to be, but she’s also not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Your meaning?” Even though she knows the answer.

His gaze flickers down to her, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. After a moment, he swallows and faces forward again. “You’ve eyes.”

“How long?” Sansa asks. Her suspicions are since Winterfell, if not earlier. But she has never seen an Arya in love, and so it’s hard for her to gauge the situation fully.

“Why the fuck should I know?”

Sansa glances up, unimpressed.

Sandor grunts at it. “Since they were runny-nosed brats. Not that they aren’t now.”

Sansa evaluates the two again. Arya is watching Gendry, and Sansa doesn’t think she’s ever seen her sister so vulnerable. Sansa silently forgives every single ripped hem, ruined doll, and social slight--Arya has found someone wonderfully convenient to fall in love with. Hopefully their earlier conversation is enough to move that piece on the board. All Sansa needs is for her sister to continue gestures like this, to make it obvious that a Stark and a Baratheon are in love again. 

Because of course she isn’t the only one noticing. Geraint Lannister and Lord Royce both send glances to the Lord Baratheon, each looking as though they’re watching something play out again. Quentyn Martell is also keeping a watchful eye underneath his lazy repose--no doubt understanding the political match with Starfall may not play through. He catches her staring and sends a slow wink. Sansa responds with a polite smile.

She’ll need to watch that one.

By the time Daenerys starts to speak, Sansa feels reasonably confident in how the field has been set, knows she has a thorough understanding of its players. Today, it’s likely the Reach will be bled dry, its husk given to whatever Targaryen sympathiser Daenerys wants to pat on the head. For the first time in awhile, Sansa’s thoughts go to Margaery and she’s honestly sorry for what will become of her home. 

“Thank you for coming, I’d like to welcome you to the first full Council- ”

The sound of a chair being violently shoved makes everyone stop. Sansa doesn’t have to guess where it comes from. For a moment, it’s like there’s a palimpsest: the Arya standing before her becomes younger, with branches in her hair and a tooth missing and ready to spit fire at anyone who said Jon couldn’t sit with them at a feast. Sansa does not know much about who her sister has become, but she knows the line of her clenched jaw, that her eyes narrowed in such a way means defiance. And Sansa feels a flicker of fear, because while she anticipated Arya being impulsive and reckless, she did not expect her to go this far for some _boy._

“Arya Stark. There is something you have to say?” Daenerys asks, and Sansa can see the hostility radiating that she tries to hide behind a flat smile. 

_Try it,_ Sansa silently goads. _Try_ anything _against Arya. See how the North will respond. How your Lord Husband responds._

Sansa is not surprised that Arya’s attention bypasses the Queen’s and goes straight to Jon’s. There is a silent exchange there, and oh. Sansa is beginning to see what foundations have been laid down. _Well done._

Arya is as ferocious as wolf’s blood has made her when she squares her shoulders and takes a visibly deep inhale. “I ask for my brother the King’s consent.”

“This little shit,” Sandor whispers when he, too, understands.

And Sansa does not try to contain the satisfaction blooming in her chest when Daenerys looks lost in the dark, when she turns to Jon looking for an answer Sansa thinks he doesn’t have.

Jon is clearly uncomfortable--both by the request from the sibling he used to dote upon, and the scrutiny of his wife. “What for?”

“My betrothal to Gendry Baratheon.”

It takes every lesson Sansa’s learned to not break out in triumphant laughter. Even still, she knows she doesn’t hide the grin on her lips. Jon’s eyes go wide, Daenerys’ nostrils flare. Across from Sansa, Quentyn Martell catches her eye, and makes a small dip of his chin--acknowledging a point gained in the greater game between them all. Sansa fights down grinning in favor of folding her hands in her lap and turning her attention back to Jon. Who is glaring at Gendry. And for the first time in her life, Sansa is overjoyed to have Arya make a spectacle of their family.

“Granted,” Jon says. 

_Yes,_ Sansa thinks, fighting down another smile as Arya slowly sinks back into her chair and her blacksmith’s struck expression follows her. _This will do nicely._

Her cousin on the throne. Tullys holding the Riverlands and the Vale. Starks ruling the North and Stormlands.

Sansa’s eyes land on Tionne Lannister. They met for tea two days ago, an invitation Sansa sent to demonstrate that the North’s ill will toward the Casterly Rock Lannisters need not extend to the Lannisport branch. They had decent conversation, during which Sansa not-so-subtly suggested that it felt like an opportune moment to have more women on the Council, what with Her Grace’s revolutionary ideas. Tionne’s face had brightened at the prospect, green eyes sparking with intelligence. If it went according to plan, Sansa suspects the young woman will be spending more time in King’s Landing. So will Sansa's unwed brother. 

Crownlands, Riverlands, the Vale, the North, the Stormlands. Westerlands. 

Sansa’s gaze shifts from Daenerys, to Yara, to Quentyn.

Winter is coming.


	3. Arya: Before the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fill for "before the beginning" or 3 or more sentences on something that happened before the fic. **warnings** for some gross burning body stuff (not too explicit, but still CYA)
> 
> \--  
> from ch. 4 of fury:  
> “Were you there?”
> 
> Arya immediately knows what he means. Unbidden, it all comes back: the screams, the smell of blood and burning flesh that will never, ever leave her. A child clutching on to a small, wooden horse. Ceilings caving in around her. A man who looked a little too much like Gendry grabbing her shoulders and asking for his wife. Arya swallows.

All her senses are submerged. Arya fights her way through the swarming crowds without seeing, her already beaten body being shoved and pushed. All she hears is a muted whistle, a solitary keening note that overpowers the screams and crashing debris and the shriek of a dragon. Arya moves without thought or intent, letting the crowd push her movements along and it’s not until she feels something heavy on her shoulder that the current is broken. 

“My wife!” She hears, distorted at first, although clearer on the second time. “Have you seen my wife?!”

Arya’s gaze focuses for the first time since escaping the Red Keep. Even then it’s a little off-center. The man in front of her is about a decade older, his eyes green and not blue, and his hair is dark but not cut as short. 

“Have you seen her?”

Her tongue is swollen. She can’t move it to form words. The man isn’t even looking at her, truly, because if he did he would understand that she doesn’t know him. Doesn’t know his wife. That it’s useless, right now, to ask about the fate of one person while thousands were dying.

He doesn’t ask again, and once his hand leaves Arya’s shoulder, it’s like whatever was drowning her releases, letting her come up fully into her senses. 

Standing on the outskirts of Flea Bottom as it burns alive, she wishes it hadn’t.

\--

Arya never sees that man again, but once it’s done, she sees others. Women weeping over their children, children weeping over their siblings or parents. She sees a woman with red in her hair hunched over a boy about ten and screaming and Arya has to turn down onto another street. But it doesn’t matter. They’re everywhere.

A man sits slumped against the wall, a charred husk of something in his lap that he sings to with a voice thick from tears.

A child, no more than five, wanders around--a lone figure standing in a smoking street. He doesn’t cry at all, just stumbles in confusion in a place that isn’t, anymore.

She’s so exhausted that she trips over one of the bodies. 

_Have you seen her?_

\--

“Why,” he can barely breathe, and so she knows this is pointed. “The _fuck_...you here?”

Arya sits at Sandor’s bedside. She doesn’t do anything sentimental like hold his hand. Instead her eyes find a place on the floor, staring at the red-tinted brick and trying to find an answer she doesn’t have. 

More skin of his is bandaged than not, the bandages stained yellow from sweat and pus. The Maester doesn’t think he’ll last another night.

“Go...home.” His chest can’t rise or fall deeply. Everything he says sounds like he’s running, like he’s submerged just like she was. “So I. Can die.”

Arya’s eyes burn. 

She doesn’t go home.

\--

It’s Jon who cries first. Two days after the Burning, they’re alone, sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard at night. They’re talking about what it’s safe to talk about--the supplies, clearing debris--when he suddenly stops, hunching over and hiding his face as his back starts to heave. It’s small at the beginning, then bigger and bigger. Like a spiral winding out. Soon it becomes full sobs, and Arya doesn’t want him to do it. Because if he breaks, if her big brother breaks, then she can’t…

She doesn’t. Her own tears sting as the fall into the open cuts she has on her cheeks and lips, her own breathing rattles from the soot she’s still coughing out of her lungs. Neither can speak, so they don’t, and after awhile they both wipe their eyes, nose, and mouth and start talking about rations again.

\--

Being in the Keep, surrounded by soldiers in silvers and blacks and reds, makes her hands shake. So Arya spends most of her time in the city. It’s backbreaking work. She clears brick, sometimes finding remains behind or under it. She scrubs the streets, scorch marks the only thing remaining of the bodies lying on top of them. She gathers what’s left of wood for the massive pyres that they’re holding in the street for the dead, as though more fire will bring any sort of closure. In the flames, more than once she sees the face of Beric, hears his blood-choked command for her to live.

Arya watches children while their parents search for their spouses, brings bread and apples for people to eat from the Keep. Arya keeps her body moving so her mind can’t catch up to it. So she can disappear like the burned stones and bodies everyone’s so eager to be rid of. 

\--

When she closes her eyes, the image that keeps coming back is the man who grabbed her. But after she forgets what he looks like, the features start becoming someone else’s. It’s Gendry who is gripping her arms, Gendry whose eyes are wide and whose face is caked in blood that isn’t dried yet.

 _“My wife?_ ” He asks her, hand shaking her shoulder. “ _Have you seen my wife?!”_

 _No_ , Arya thinks as she bites down on her lower lip. _No, she isn’t here._


	4. Podrick's Poor Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the drabble dump today! this ep: Podrick's POV on anything  
> ch. 10, 13, and 17

He thought walking in on them that night on the King’s Road would be the only time.  
He was wrong.

\----

There is a good moment where everyone at their table is in something like shock. It wasn’t often that a Lord Paramount interrupted a dance between a Lady and different Lord by physically dragging said lady out of a dance hall. Despite himself, Pod found it a little romantic. 

Brienne, it seems, does not. “Podrick,” she says tightly and under her breath. “Please go find our Lord and remind him that we are at court, and it would be prudent to return Lady Arya to the Great Hall so people do not believe she has been _kidnapped._ ”

Podrick smiles, sees the look of neutral displeasure on Brienne’s face, and schools it down. “Right away.”

He follows out the door they’d left, and once he’s out in the Keep’s halls he hears voices echoing-- _shouting,_ really. Podrick shakes his head, quietly amused, as he follows the voices.

“It’s not that easy. We need the nobles to-” Pod hears Arya shout.

“Fuck the nobles!” He hears Gendry yell back.

It’s probably not a good idea to get involved in the middle of a fight, but probably a worse idea to disobey Brienne. Podrick turns down one of the darkened halls-

-and Gendry’s got Arya slammed against the wall while her hand goes down his pants.

Podrick turns around. 

-

“Where is Lord Baratheon?” Brienne says, mildly irritated when Pod joins their table empty-handed.

“Coming,” he says. Then has to take a long drink of wine to stop himself from laughing.

\----

He’s beyond drunk, the women from the Iron Islands finding it fun to absolutely plow him with drinks during the wedding feast. Pod’s so drunk, in fact, that he can’t remember where the privy is. And since he doesn’t want to upset anyone, he stumbles toward the only place he thinks he’ll be able to relieve himself without anyone seeing--the Godswood. 

Eventually, he finds a place far enough away from both the ceremony site and the Great Hall. His fingers, feeling fat and numb from drink, awkwardly work at the laces on his breeches so he can piss against the tree when he hears _them:_

“-we should probably try somewhere with a door.”

“No thanks.”

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of clothes being thrown around.

Podrick sighs, hanging his head in defeat as he redoes his trousers and resigns himself to finding a different corner of the woods. 

\----

One morning, after they’ve been back at Storm’s End for a little more than a week, he runs into Davos breaking his fast. He looks exhausted, fingers shovelling food into his mouth mechanically.

“Ser Davos,” Podrick greets, a little carefully.

“Ah, Pod.” Davos smiles at him, then rubs at his chin. “Could you be a good lad and take over Gendry’s reading lesson this morning? I’ve some matters to attend to with shipping tariffs.”

Podrick nods. “Of course.”

Ten minutes later, he’s walking up to the library where they’ve been doing letters. Distracted by the scroll in his hand, Podrick opens the door without looking up.

“Gendry, I figured today we’d-”

He’s interrupted by two voices simultaneously:

“Shit!”   
“ _Knock_!” 

Don’t look up. He tells himself. Whatever he does, he can’t look up-

Pod looks up.

Arya’s laying on her back over the writing desk, still in trousers and a light shirt but her doublet and cape are on the ground. Gendry’s...not in a similar state, and Podrick rolls his eyes up after he catches sight of a very naked arse.

“I’ll. Uh. Yes.” Podrick walks straight backwards out of the room without turning around, bringing a scroll to shield his eyes.

“Fuck’s sake,” he hears Gendry mutter behind him, accompanied by the sound of someone frantically hitching pants back on.

\---

Sandor is in a bad mood, which does not mean much, but after the third or fourth drink he slams Podrick can’t help but ask:

“Something wrong?”

Sandor sends Pod the usual look he sends Pod, the one that says _how dare you speak to me?_ After a few more drinks, he sniffs. “Add stables to your stupid little list.”

Podrick sighs, withdrawing the small scroll from his pocket:

 _Campfires_ _  
_ _Hallways_ _  
_ _Trees_ _  
_ _Study_ _  
_ _Library_ _  
_ _Battlements_ _  
_ _Forge_ _  
_ and now,   
_Stables._


	5. Davos: Reading a Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> request for Dad!vos' reaction to the "were betrowed" letter. Set somewhere between ch. 15&17, mentions ch. 3 & 4

Truth be told, he doesn’t read it fully at first. After he got passed the relief and joy of knowing the lad was alright, his hand works on instinct, a process drilled into his mind over the past few months of being Gendry’s teacher:

He’s certainly improved on spelling names. Davos remembers in particular the tenacity in which Gendry had learned “Arya”– missing vowels then clumsy i’s. He had never understood why he fixated on that particular name, not until the night she came to Storm’s End. Davos sighs at the memory, looking away from the scroll. 

He’d known something was…odd as soon as Gendry almost tripped and fell down the battlements upon her arrival. Davos had watched on, cautiously curious as they exchanged words at the gates and Arya Stark walked past him. Perhaps it wasn’t kind, but he remembers thinking the action was something callous on her end. A feeling that didn’t quite dissipate as they sat and discussed the wedding, although Davos was thankful she took the time to warn them all. Ravens were more easily intercepted than a fast rider. 

But then, Davos began to notice the little things. How Arya’s gaze didn’t leave the boy, even when he caught her staring. Her hand resting on his forearm and how that made his entire body tense up. Her sudden spike in temper when Davos mentioned marriage. 

After Gendry stormed out, Davos saw the way Arya’s chin quivered before she smothered it with clenched teeth. How she left just as abruptly, but in the opposite direction. 

_Ah,_ he’d thought. _There it is._

Small things about Gendry’s behavior in Storm’s End began to fall into place. His refusal to meet with Ladies outside of feasts. How he sulked so much at Willis and Jocie’s wedding that Davos briefly entertained he had eyes for the bride. 

When Davos found Gendry later, he was up hiding in the rookery and it confirmed what Davos suspected: the poor boy was in love. After what Davos considered a clear and heartfelt discussion, he proceeded to watch for what happened next. But during the time Arya was at Storm’s End, they danced around each other. Once, even getting into a particularly loud screaming match if the gossip were to be believed. 

Davos shakes his head. Stubborn people were certainly the worst at young love, weren’t they?

Clearing his mind, he went back to the raven. He scrutinized the word he hadn’t been able to immediately parse, speaking it aloud. 

“Betrowed-”

Davos scans the letter again. A smile worms its way onto his face, grows until he feels his eyes crinkle. 

“Dag?” He calls out to the rookery assistant for today.

“Yeah?” 

“Yes,” he corrects him calmly. Dag’s nose scrunches–a truly unruly boy that makes him laugh more often than not. “Prepare the quarters down at the end of the west hall.”

“The ones facing the bay?”

“Aye.”

“Aren’t those the Lady’s rooms?” 

Davos lets out a little hum. “That they are.”

The servant doesn’t seem to understand what he’s saying, but he’s been complaining about the rookery all morning and so Davos isn’t surprised to see him leave without further question.

Davos gently sets the parchment down, and picks up a new scrap as well as a quill. It scratches as he writes out:

 _My dear Marya,_  
_Seems we have no need for you to send your young cousin Marta here. Gendry’s managed to catch himself a Stark girl._  
 _Love to you and our boys,_  
 _Davos_

After it’s sent, he leans back in his seat and tries to picture what the castle might be like with dark-haired and well-armed children running around it. 


	6. Jon: Before the Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set during chapter 19!

It’s not often that Jon gets to feel his age, but here in the kitchens, rummaging through stores with Arya, he almost does. It’s like he’s a boy again, running with Robb and Theon around Wintertown and getting into trouble. When Arya shoots him a conspiratory grin before grabbing a container of berries from the stores, he sends one back, a little slower.

“Future Lady of Storm’s End,” Jon teases. “Stealing. However will the people look at you now?”

She seems to think about it, then rolls her eyes. The action is so reminiscent of how she used to be before he left for the Wall that Jon is momentarily thrown, blinking as he joins her at the large table in the center of the kitchens. They’re empty now, but due to have servants back in a few hours’ time. 

“The people won’t mind,” she says simply with a shrug of her shoulders. Arya hops onto the table, sitting on its surface rather than its benches. Jon follows her. She takes a blackberry from the container, then hands it over to him. He takes a handful. “They let me in here all the time.”

“Arya Underfoot,” Jon recalls with affection. 

Her eyes go a little wider. Grabbing another berry, she presses down too tightly and it stains her fingertips purple. “Haven’t heard that one in awhile,” she mumbles.

Jon nods. “Haven’t been anywhere long enough, I imagine.” His eyes scan the walls of Storm’s End. It’s not like Winterfell--stones unhewn and floors made of what looks like leftover ship’s wood. The air is heavy with humidity and rain about to fall. Even the trees are different, without the veined leaves of the North. Instead they’re mostly needles. Maybe there’s something to that.

Jon likes Gendry well enough, despite all the trouble he’s caused him. More importantly, Arya likes him. But it’s not until now, when all the surviving Starks begin to find their place, that he realizes in his mind he had a fantasy he hasn’t let go of: that they’d all return to Winterfell. That it would go back how it was.

But he’s a wife. Arya’s soon to have a husband. And too much has happened for it to go back. For _them_ to go back.

“This is home, then?” He asks, and he’s thankful he doesn’t hear any of his wistfulness in the words. 

Arya sits with the question. “One of them,” is what she settles on. 

“You like it?”

She pops another berry in her mouth, chews with her mouth open. “Starting to.”

Jon thinks of the Red Keep, the never-ending heat and the smell of shit and sea. The whispers behind closed doors and smirking courtesans. “Good. That’s good.”

“It’s not too late.”

“For what?”

“You can stay here with me and Gendry. Or go North again.”

Jon’s lips press together before he makes himself smile. “My place is in King’s Landing.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

Jon looks up and turns to face her. Arya just takes another berry. When it’s clear he’s not going to push back, Arya shifts so her entire body faces his, legs folded and elbows resting upon them. Jon turns as well, mirroring her. 

“Really, Jon,” she says, softer now. “You could stay. Bran, too. King’s Landing, the Red Keep--you could be done with all of it.” 

He gives her a half-hearted grin. “You asking us to run away with you?”

“I want you away from her,” she says honestly. “Away from all of them.” 

“Dany’s my wife, Arya.” Jon takes another berry, this one tasting more sour on his tongue. 

Arya’s expression goes soft. “They want to hurt you, Jon.”

“But they won’t.” Jon sighs, rolling his shoulders. His voice softens. “Dany won’t, either. No matter what you think of her.”

“I just want you to be happy,” she says quietly.

Jon lets out a little laugh at that. “Isn’t it supposed to be me saying that? You’re the one getting married tomorrow.”

Arya shrugs. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I know.” And he does. Jon never thought Arya would get married at all, but now that she is, he’s relieved it’s someone like Gendry. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”

Arya’s hand reaches out for his. Both their hands are rougher than the last time they’ve done this, hardened by callouses and scars. It hurts to feel that hers are as coarse as his. That she’s seen similar evils. 

“You’re a good brother, Jon.”

He squeezes her hand before letting it go. “You make it easy.”

“Dawn will come soon.” 

Jon cranes his head, as Bran arrives in the kitchens. He frowns in concern. “Did you hurt yourself on the stairs?”

“No. Gendry made ramps.” Bran’s gaze flickers to Arya’s. “He’s good at rebuilding.”

Her brows furrow, but she nods. “What are you doing up?”

Bran stops between them, leaning back in his seat. “I’ve been wanting to revisit these walls for some time, and I no longer need sleep for dreams.”

Jon’s gaze flickers to Arya’s, who gives a minute shake of her head. Neither, it seems, better understands the Bran who returned from beyond the Wall. His brother has served well as Master of Whispers, and Jon loves him, but too often there are moments where he does not recognize the stranger that is the Three-Eyed Raven. When he does not know if his brother’s words are meant to put him at ease or warn.

Bran gives Arya a small smile. “You’ll feel safe here.”

She visibly swallows. “...thanks, Bran.”

The youngest Stark nods. Then his eyes land on the container. “May I?”

Arya’s shoulders slump as some tension leaves her body. She extends the berries out. “You don’t have to ask, you know.”

Bran lets out a small hum. His own brows furrow, this time, as a handful rest on his palm. Bran stares at them as if he does not understand. “These were his favorites.”

“Whose?” Jon asks.

“Rickon’s.”

The name casts a stillness in the room. Jon hears the dull thud of an arrow, ringing in his ears. His mouth goes dry.

“I miss him,” Bran says slowly, a delay with each word. As though he is translating from one language to another. “Strange, isn’t it?”

“It’s not strange,” Arya states abruptly. Then, softer: “I miss them, too. All of them.” 

Bran says nothing, merely stares at the berries in his hand. Jon, however, picks up on what she’s not saying.

“He’d be proud of you, Arya.” Jon’s mouth quirks, the next words he says still edged in hurt after all these years and a death behind him. “Your Lady Mother, as well.”

“I want him there tomorrow,” she admits.

“He will be,” Bran says, lifting his head to look at her. “They’re with their stories, wherever we tell them.”

“Well,” says Jon when he sees Arya’s eyes looking wet in the light of the fire. “Let’s find some wine, then.”

\--

The night before Arya’s wedding, they share stories of Rickon and Robb. Their father. Arya and Bran talk of Catelyn, while Jon sits quietly, nursing his wine. After a few cups, they speak of Theon. There’s so much Jon or Arya can't remember, but Bran calmly interjects with small things forgotten--what color dress it was that Arya tore, what Rickon’s favorite game was. If Robb was left or right-handed. Small pieces of Winterfell that were broken up and fallen away.

Jon looks at Arya, then Bran.

Three Starks in the South. They’ve been broken apart, too.

The night passes this way, and eventually the hour and wine must win over Arya, because she starts to nod off. Then snores, lightly.

Jon stares at her, wondering when she stopped being the little girl with scabby knees. Wondering how he’ll ever fathom the idea of her being someone’s wife.

“She’s a long day tomorrow. Best get to bed,” Jon says around a yawn, pushing himself from the table. Like she’s nine years old again, he scoops her up, an arm under her knees and the other behind the shoulders. “Goodnight, Bran.”

Bran gives a shallow dip of his chin, before he turns to the fire. Jon lingers for a moment, leaving when he realizes Bran’s not going to say anything else.

“Jon,” Bran muses quietly, once he's alone. “Is the right name for both of them.”


	7. Extra: Map of the Stormlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so lol i made a map. the main map is taken from the ASoIaF wiki, and i added some other canon locations. it's roughly the order of the Planned Progress, although i might move some stuff around as we get going o7

**key:**  
pink = canon location  
purple = no canon location / placement i made up  
orange = guesses of landmarks

**Locations**  
0\. Storm’s End, seat of House Baratheon  
1\. Griffin’s Roost, seat of House Connington  
2\. Rain House, seat of House Wylde  
3\. Greenstone, seat of House Estermont  
4\. Seat of House Seaworth (canonically somewhere on Cape Wrath)  
5\. Weeping Town, seat of House Whitehead  
6\. Mistwood, seat of House Mertyns  
7\. Amberly, seat of House Rogers  
8\. Stonehelm, seat of House Swann  
9\. Blackhaven, seat of House Dondarrion  
10\. Nightsong, seat of House Caron  
11\. Harvest Hall, seat of House Selmy  
12\. Summerhall, ruined castle  
13\. Parchments, seat of House Penrose  
14\. Gallowsgrey, seat of House Trant  
15\. Felwood, seat of House Fell  
16\. Bronzegate, seat of House Buckler  
17\. Haystack Hall, seat of House Errol  
18\. Poddingfield, seat of House Peasebury  
19\. Evenfall, seat of House Tarth  
  
**Landmarks**  
a. The Black Bog  
b. The Red Watch


	8. Arya: Ronald Storm, Squire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> request for arya's pov sometime during the stormlands arc <3
> 
> set during ch. 22!

She knows he didn’t leave while she spoke to Gendry. Arya crosses her arms and quirks an eyebrow in amusement. “You can come out.” **  
**

Ronald Storm doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed about being called out, walking out from the stone wall he was hiding behind. Arya watches levelly as he picks up his longsword again. Then he just stands there, waiting for her to direct him once again.

He listens to her, if nothing else. And he’s stubborn, but in a good way. The way he furrows his brow while practicing reminds her of a long time ago. Chasing cats. 

“So you’re leaving,” Ronald mutters.

“We weren’t going to stay.” Arya walks around him, taps his elbow with her stick. “Tuck that in.”

He does. “Where’d you learn all this anyway?”

“Braavos.”

Ronald’s eyes widen, and he cranes his neck to look at her over his shoulder. “Like the Braavosi swordsmen?”

Arya nods, nonplussed. “Water dancing.” Then goes back to instructing. “High guard is used for a downward strike or counter-”

“You’re a Braavosi swordsman!?” Ronald clears his throat, looking down. “Er, swordswoman.”

Arya rolls her eyes. “You want to learn forms, or not?”

“Yes.” He scowls. “No one else here will teach me.”

Arya frowns. “I figured as much, during the spar. Why not?”

Ronald tenses. “I’m just a bastard.”

“That’s stupid.”

He blinks. 

Arya shrugs. “I’d teach you, if you want.” 

“But you’re leaving.”

“So?” 

Ronald stares at her for a long time. His freckled nose scrunches up, as though attempting complicated sums. “I’d have to leave with you.”

“That’s the idea.” Arya pointedly looks around. “At Storm’s End, Ser Brienne, Sandor, and Brienne’s squire Podrick train anyone who wants.”

“Even lowborns?”

“You’re not a lowborn. Your father’s a Knight. Maybe a shitty one, but a Knight all the same,” she corrects him pointedly. “Anyways, you’re strong. With some training in forms, you might make for a decent swordsman. Something to think about.”

Ronald stares at her for a long time, not sure what to make of what she’s saying. “So you’d let me go with you to Storm’s End? To train?”

“We have room.”

“What if I decide not to?”

“Then go home.” Arya lifts a shoulder. “It makes no difference to me. Do what you want.” She drops her stick, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Anyways, I need to see Brienne. She’s dueling your father tomorrow, and she’ll win.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Yes I do.”

Ronald scrunches his nose again. It’s not the most flattering look. “She’s a woman.”

 _Conningtons_ , Arya thinks sourly. “Should we fight, then? See who wins.”

“You’re- you’re not- !”

“Yes I am. Better get used to it.” Arya turns to go. “If you want to come with us, you can. It’ll be awhile until we’re back to Storm’s End, but there’s space for you with the guard. You’d get training, food, lodging when we get to it. And probably some coin once we get back to the castle.”

Ronald absently pats the pouch on his belt, containing three stags he got from that thug Gendry.

“Keep your elbows tucked in,” Arya reminds him one last time before heading to the gatehouse.

One. Two. Three-

“Wait!” 

Arya pivots.

“I’ll come with.” Ronald’s face is bright red, almost matching his hair. “If I can train with you.”

Arya crosses her arms. “Braavosi style won’t help. You’re too slow for it.”

“I can get faster!” 

“Probably not fast enough.”

“I can squire!”

She watches him coolly. He’s earnest about it. Maybe a little uncomfortable. Finally, she sighs. “Alright. We’ll be leaving early tomorrow, so be packed and ready.”

Ronald nods.

Arya heads to the gatehouse, not sure what she can do with a squire but resolved to ask Brienne about it.


	9. Podrick: Rumor Mill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the request of another POV/reaction to arya's arrival at storm's end! set between chapters 3 & 4

It’s not until the next day that Pod runs it all through his mind. At the time, his thoughts had been focused on only one thing: Tyrion Lannister was dead by dragon fire. By the time it came to break fast the next morning, Pod was still feeling the effects of the news, but was able to compartmentalize it--to find easier things to occupy his mind.

Somehow, one of the easier things was the strange, abrupt arrival of Arya Stark.

When Pod first met Arya Stark, he thought her pretty and brave--nursing a small flame that he never intended to do anything with. Just admiration. He enjoyed watching her train with Brienne, was happy to see someone else value his Ser as much as he did and respect her abilities. 

When Pod first entered the service of Gendry Baratheon, it was...overwhelming. Taking over a kingdom was difficult even when one was highborn. But Gendry wasn’t, and Pod, Brienne, and Davos often had to move quickly to pick up the pieces that he shattered with impatience or belligerence. Once Gendry stopped treating Lordship like an opponent in a battle, Pod was happy to see he took well to it--albeit in an unconventional way. He was stubborn, rude, and often ill-tempered, but he was also strong and principled. 

When Pod thought of Arya, and thought of Gendry, he wasn’t sure how it added up. 

And it seemed he wasn’t the only one who was wondering.

“Podrick.” Brienne’s greeting is clear and direct as always as he enters the gatehouse. 

Almost as a unit, the soldiers’ heads snap towards the door as he enters. Podrick knows he has to tread carefully here. 

“Ser Brienne,” he says, then nods to the room. 

Enough time passes that Podrick thinks it’s all going to be alright. But then-

“Is it true what they’re saying?” Ory asks, craning his neck in order to maintain eye contact the entire time as Podrick makes his way from the door to the table where they’re breaking their fasts.

Podrick tugs at his collar, a little uncomfortable. “What who’s saying?”

“That some Lady stormed the gates of the castle, demanding Lord Baratheon take responsibility for getting a babe-”

“No!” Steffen interrupts, and Pod sags in relief. Someone with sense, finally- “My friend Ced, who knows Bruce, who was on rotation with Gerault, says it was someone from the Iron Bank-”

“Don’t be a bloody moron,” Ronard interjects, and Pod is glad the voice of eldered wisdom is to be heard at last. “My boy Roger, who grew up with Bruce, who was on rotation with Gerault, says they came in with a man whose face was melted all up-”

Pod winces. That’s. Probably not the best way to refer to Sandor Clegane-

“Was the fucking Hound!” Roy says, slamming down his cup. “Saw him with my own eyes. What’s the Hound coming to see our Lord for?”

Cedric narrows his eyes. “You don’t think our Lord owes coin to any pirates or anything, do you?”

“What makes you say that?” Roy demands.

“Can’t see any reason someone would take the Hound and kick down a door in the middle of the night, that’s all.”

“Bruce says it wasn’t the middle of the night-”

“-’course it was the middle of the night! When else would riders be appearing all mysterious-like?”

Pod starts to hunch his shoulders, hoping he can disappear into them.

“I still heard it was a Lady,” Ory insists.

“What kind of daft bastard would go and confuse  _ The Hound  _ for a  _ Lady _ ?” Ronard interjects, tearing off meat from a bone.

“Maybe she ain’t all that comely?” Steffen suggests.

“She’s pretty,” Podrick corrects mindlessly as he reaches for a roll.

The table goes quiet. Suddenly there’s ten sets of eyes on him. Podrick sloooooowly bites into the bread.

“You  _ saw _ ?” Cedric asks, gaze intent.

“Go on, then. Who is she?” Ronard encourages.

Maybe if Pod keeps chewing, they’ll forget he said anything.

Ah, no. No they’ll just watch him chew.

Awkwardly he swallows. Takes a breath, straightens his shoulders. “I did-”

“If we’re  _ done  _ clucking about like chickens,” Brienne interrupts as she comes to stand at the head of the table. “I believe we’ve duties to perform this morning.”

Pod watches them all visibly fight the urge to protest. But they do, and Pod sags in relief once they all start making for the exit to the gatehouse. After the last exit, he looks up at her.

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

A long pause.

And then Brienne sits next to him. “Podrick.”

Nervously, he reaches for another roll. “...yes?”

“Arya and Gendry seemed...rather close, wouldn’t you agree?”

“A little.”

“It was strange for her to arrive without word the way she did.”

“It was.”

“I’ve spoken to Davos. He feels much the same.”

Pod winces. No, he’s not sure how Arya and Gendry add up...

Brienne’s voice sounds far away. “Perhaps we can ask the Hound for more information.”

...but it seems he’s going to find out whether he wants to or not.

Powerless in the face of Arya Stark’s sudden arrival, Pod enjoys his second piece of bread.


	10. Ronald: Fuck That Guy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the request of ronald's crush/jealous gendry. not quite ( :'| ) what was asked for, but the Spirit is there. i had to cut myself off because legit just almost re-wrote all of ch. 22 from ronald’s POV :'D 
> 
> **warnings** for vague (but probably unsurprising) fury spoilers, a mention of ronnet hitting ronald/ronnet being a piece of shit, and gendry being victim of slander 8(
> 
> \--
> 
> takes place during the end of ch. 21 / beginning of ch. 22!

He hates Gendry Baratheon before he ever meets him. His father’s told them all enough: he’s some grifter from the gutters of King’s Landing, who had kissed enough Targaryen ass to land himself a Lordship. And that’s not even the worst of it all. Ronald had never been to court, but they had a cousin there named Rodolph who always wrote. And Rodolph said Gendry Baratheon’d gone and probably strong-armed Arya Stark into marrying him. They said he dragged her out of the Great Hall, ripped her right out of her betrothed’s arms. The whole court thought him unmannerly and crass and brutish--all the worst parts of Robert Baratheon, as well as his look. His uncle said the only reason the union between Lady Stark and Gendry Baratheon was allowed was because the King was a bastard upstart himself, and the lower born supported their own. Ronald had stared at the wall for that part, fists clenched.

Ronald’s father hadn’t taken any of the news from King’s Landing well. And he took the news about the wedding even less--”bred his bitch soon enough,” had been the exact words. Ronald hadn’t liked that, much. Gendry Baratheon sounded like a piece of gutter shit, but highborn Ladies shouldn’t be called dogs. And it sounded like Arya Stark had suffered enough indignity already.

After the rumors came the announcement that they’d have to host them. Ronald wasn’t privy to his family’s political affairs, but he noticed more ravens going in and out than usual during the month they prepared for House Baratheon’s arrival--east, south, and north. Whatever was happening, his father didn’t like it.

The week before their arrival had been even worse--the general mayhem of preparing for a host of fifty-something men, but also the way his father and uncle had been acting. They were both more short-tempered than usual, slamming doors and throwing books into fires. Ronald made the mistake of asking about one of their conversations and gotten a split lip for his trouble. He stopped asking after that.

The night before they were meant to arrive, father calls him into his solar.

“We can’t trust him, Ronald,” Ronnet says, fingers crossed over his mouth.

Ronald hadn’t been invited to sit, so he just stands behind the chairs across from his father’s desk. “Yes, father.”

Ronnet’s gaze flickers up. “How much do you know of our House’s relationship with the Baratheons?”

“They stole our land,” he says without having to think about it. Ronald doesn’t remember much about his grandfather, for whom he was named, but he does remember the hatred with which he spoke of Robert Baratheon. Nine-tenths of House Connington’s holdings had been dispersed, the majority split between House Mertyns, Rogers, and Wylde. All because Robert had a temper tantrum.

“That’s correct.” His father shifts in his seat. “Because you are my blood and one day I may legitimize you should I never have a true son-”

Ronald swallows hard.

“-it’s your right to know what this visit means.” Ronnet drops his hands from in front of his mouth. “We have pledged support to Gendry’s claim because Jon demanded it. But our cousin is still in Essos, and did not realize the unfortunate history repeating in the Stormlands. I’ve since informed him.”

Ronald’s not sure what’s meant by all this, but he wisely stays silent. 

“I suspect Gendry Baratheon is coming to pillage our coffers and further disgrace our House by taking our status as landed knights. He is here for what could be your birthright, Ronald.” Father sneers. “Lowborns like him care little for honor or tradition. And he’s already proven himself bloodthirsty and soulless by allying with Daenerys Targaryen after she killed half of King’s Landing. I have no doubt he will find any reason to take the Roost from us and give it to one of his cutthroat bootlickers.” He clenches his jaw. “We must not trust this man, or any of his retinue, do you understand?”

“I understand.”

His father leans back and stares at him for a long while, as though trying to see how honest he’s being. Ronald straightens his posture. After a moment, he nods. “While they are here, you are to remain out of sight and mind. No doubt he’d find your mere presence an insult to him, and we cannot give him any excuse to punish our family.”

Ronald grinds his teeth. Of course high and mighty Gendry Baratheon would take any issue with a bastard who did as he was supposed to do and _stayed_ a bastard. “I understand.”

Father looks at him once more, but then waves his hand dismissively. 

Ronald tries to smile. “Goodnight, father.”

“Yes, yes. Go now.”

\--

The day they arrive, he’s told to stand in the back with the servants--it wouldn’t due to offend the Lord Mighty on High by ruining his view. He’s intent to stare at the dirt the entire time out of defiance, but when people in the courtyard start whispering, his curiosity gets the better of him. Ronald’s not tall, and so he has to shoulder a few people to the side in order to see the party arriving. The first person he sees can only be the Hound-- the infamous lapdog of the Lannisters (yet another reason why Gendry Baratheon is scum). He’s a fearsome sight, half his features unrecognizable under the thick webbing of scar tissue. After him comes...a woman? in blue and gold-tinted armor, her face dour and Ronald has never heard of ladies in armor and so he is caught staring for a moment--the same way one might stare at a fire-eater or a juggler or something.

Then comes the man who can only be Gendry Baratheon. Immediately, Ronald thinks his reputation is well-earned. He can’t make out Lady Stark yet, but he _can_ tell that Gendry dismounts his ugly-looking horse and moves forward without offering to help his pregnant wife down from hers. Ronald reluctantly admits that he’s big, his lumbering frame a build found on the villains in songs. The menacing appearance is enhanced by his shortly cropped hair--the sort of style worn by criminals or hard laborers. Gendry frowns when he addresses his father, not even attempting a genial greeting as befitting a Lord. Father was right when he said Baratheon was there to look down at them.

A slight figure steps forward, then, and Ronald’s eyes go wide. 

His first thought is that he’s never seen a woman like her. She wears a man’s clothes, hair in an unraveling braid over her shoulder and still slightly wet from the hard rainfall an hour or so ago. When she walks, it’s with an easy grace that reminds him of cats, but there’s something dangerous about her, too. Ronald looks at her waist and sees at least two weapons--a dagger and a sword of some kind. Her grey eyes are striking even from where he stands.

He hears his father greet her as Lady Arya and his mouth goes dry. It’s not fair that she’s in this situation. That she’s to be a mother to this terrible man’s child, instead of with her _real_ betrothed in Dorne. 

The usurper lord walks into the gates of his home (without offering his pregnant wife an arm of escort!) and Ronald hates him that much more.


	11. Bruno: Play Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set during chapter 25 when arya & bruno are off raiding the woods for sellswords :D

Bruno grins leaning his weight back on his heels as he goes eye-to-eye with a direwolf. Nymeria sits in front of him, her body relaxed and lazy. They’d been working together for a few hours now. Something to pass the time as Arya went and set traps at the nearby encampment. **  
**

“Ready?”

Nymeria sniffs. Bruno knows she thinks this is beneath her, but he also knows she’s bored, just like him! So they might as well entertain each other.

“Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.”

The wolf cocks her head to one side, then the other. As if to say what do you think I’m doing, idiot?

Bruno blinks, then grins, stretching out his fingers to dig into her endlessly thick fur. “Good girl! Good job good girl! Who’s so pretty?”

She lets out a low rumble that he thinks is her agreeing that she’s so pretty. That’s nice progress with sitting so far. Now, they had to kick it up.

“Lay!”

Nymeria almost looks embarrassed for him. But she gives a little wolf sigh and stretches out her front paws until she’s on her belly. 

“Yeah! Go Nymeria! This one’s tricky. Ready?”

She huffs.

“Play dead!”

Nymeria huffs again, then leans her body to the side until she halfway rolls that way. 

Bruno frowns. “You know that’s not all of it.”

Nymeria parts her mouth, tongue flopping out.

Bruno laughs as he tosses her a piece of the rabbit he’d been eating. She inhales it with killing force, which makes sense: Bruno’s already seen her tear a leg in half. She’s the best girl in the world.

“What are you doing?” Arya’s voice cuts through the brush, and Bruno looks over his shoulder to wave her over. This a vague look of disapproval on her face, but once she sees Nymeria’s tail wagging it leaves. The direwolf charges ahead, knocking Bruno onto his back and stepping over him in order to meet her person.

Bruno laughs again, folding his hands over his stomach. “We were just playing. She looked bored, so I taught her some tricks.”

Arya walks over and crouches next to him. She looks tired and is covered on her arms and legs with spots of pitch. Her hair smells like it’s been caught in a fire. Bruno tries not to worry, mainly because he knows he doesn’t need to, but he does feel bad. “Oh?”

Bruno sits himself back up, squaring his shoulders. “Nymeria, sit!”

Out of his field of vision, Nymeria looks at Arya, who gives a little nod. The wolf huffs again, undignified, but she sits.

Bruno turns to her, smiling widely. “Only took us ten minutes for that!” 

“She did a good job,” Arya concedes, fighting down a smirk. Nymeria silently begs her to intervene with her wide, yellow eyes. “How is camp?” 

Their main party is camped a few miles up river, Bruno and Nymeria meant to be perimeter scouts. He wasn’t sure how that worked with them almost a half mile away, but Nymeria seemed confident enough for him to go along with it.

“They’re doing good. Hunting’s never a problem.” His eyes widen, remembering something. “Garth made some jerky, if you want any?” Bruno pulls out some, wrapped in muslin, and tosses it to her. She catches it easily.

“Thanks,” she offers, then surprises him by sinking into a full seat beside him. It’s not that she was unfriendly, just that tonight’s the first time they really get to talk away from everyone else and fires catching.

“So,” Bruno says, chomping down a piece of his own meat. “You explode anything?”

“Two,” she says, swallowing. “This is really good.”

“Yeah. It’s kind of Garth’s thing.” Then it seems like they’re done talking, just sitting in silence. After about ten seconds, Bruno starts squirming. Another five, and he’s lightly swinging his arms in front of him. “You want to head back?”

Nymeria pads beside them, crashing on Arya’s other side. She sinks her fingers into the wolf’s fur. “Not yet.”

“Okay with me.” He finishes his jerky. “So you like Lord Gendry?”

“What?”

“Lord Gendry. He seems like a good man.” Bruno pauses, considering. “A little mean, sometimes, but that’s only because he doesn’t want to seem nice.”

Arya sends him a confused look. “Do I like...my husband?”

Bruno shrugs. “I like him. Figured you would, too. But wanted to be sure, since there’s a lot of rumors and all.” He elbows her gently, voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you actually piss on him in front of the Queen?”

Arya’s face breaks out into a smile, then a laugh. And Bruno smiles with her, glad he was able to make her seem a little less tired. “No. Nobody peed on anything.”

“Ah, that’s not as fun.”

“No, it’s not.” The laugh leaves her face slowly, fading into a small, amused smile. “Your family’s been kind to us.”

Of course they’ve been, why wouldn’t they? “Don’t worry, it’s not just manners. My father even set aside his third-best port for Lord Gendry while they wait for us to get back.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“The ones he don’t like get water.”

She shakes her head. “Then what does he do with his second-best?”

“Drinks it.”

“And his best?”

“Wants to be buried with it.” 

Arya snorts lightly. “Of course he does.” She leans back, looking up at the sky. “Can you tell me more about them? Your siblings?”

“Sure. Want me to start with the loudest?”

“Alright.”

“So two namedays ago, Cory went and impersonated a septa-”

They spend the rest of the second watch together, splitting jerky as Bruno tells her stories about his family. Sometimes she laughs, sometimes she looks sad--like when he talks about Fred teaching him and Margrat how to shoot a bow, and how she shot ten times better than him before quitting because she was bored. 

At the end of the night, he tries not to feel too bad when Arya asks Nymeria to play dead and she goes off into the woods only to come back with a dead scout between her maw. Nymeria’s hers, after all. It only made sense that she’d do better tricks if Arya was the one who was asking.


	12. Andrew: Dreamweaver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew Estermont & Margrat Wylde, set during ch. 26!

It was wrong. All of it was wrong. He felt too old for her, even though he knew many a marriage held bigger gaps between husband and wife. His nephew, Alyn, was attempting to court her, even though Andrew knew the Lady Margrat had no interest in him. Andrew had no holdings of his own, even though he was set to inherit a modest amount of land once his father passed. **  
**

The sun sinks down as the bonfire roars to life, and Andrew can’t stop watching her across from it. The fire reflects in her dark, wavy hair, making it look almost like burnished copper. Without having to be subjected to social duties, the scowl on her face fades away to something more neutral. His eyes track every freckle across her nose. She’s very beautiful. He always thought so, ever since he first met her five years ago. 

Her deep brown eyes land on him, and Andrew quickly looks away and pretends to be interested in something Lomas is saying. It’s about birch bark (and how? how did Lomas get to _birch bark)_? 

...he’s smitten, he realizes. And it’s an embarrassing thing at his age. Although he’s never married, he is no green boy. From the scandalous reputation the Wyldes have, he assumes Lady Margrat is no maiden, either. This should not be a difficult thing for him. To ask her for a walk, or to talk to her away from his family or hers, or that of the new Stormlord.

Andrew watches, hesitant, as Alyn approaches Lady Margrat holding two cups. His nephew says something to her, and without pause or looking at him, she reaches her hand up and tups the cup over, spilling it on the ground. Alyn cries a protest in shock, and she shrugs. The Lady Margrat is an incredibly rude and ill-tempered woman, famously so. She snarls more than she smiles, flips tables over faster than she curtsys. He’s seen her argue with a nobleman before she drove her knee into his manhood. Another time she broke a page’s nose for some offense even the page didn’t seem to understand.

Andrew sighs, wistful.

“You know,” his father says slowly, pausing his diatribe on the various medicinal properties of bark. “She’s ill-suited for you.”

Andrew snaps his head, angry and somewhat betrayed. “You don’t-”

Lomas smiles, lowering his voice before he walks away. “You’re welcome.”

Suddenly, Lady Margrat is at his side, and Andrew’s heart leaps up somewhere past his throat. “Is that old man bothering you?”

“My father?”

“Yes. He said something and you seemed upset.”

Andrew’s eyes widen as he takes her in. Her fists are tight, jaw clenched. The fire reflects in her eyes and he’s pretty sure she’d be fine with killing someone if she thought they were being rude enough.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” He finally asks.

Her gaze sharpens as it rests on his face. “What for?”

“For a walk.”

“What else?”

He blinks. “...nothing else.”

Lady Margrat stares at him as if she’s measuring a horse.

“Add something else,” she says in a clipped tone, before she crosses her arms and starts walking toward a path Andrew knows leads to the other, empty side of the beach.

Andrew’s mouth goes dry as he follows after her as fast as he can. He tries, quickly, to think of something else.


	13. Brienne: A Crude Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set during ch. 25!

Brienne watches as the youngest Wylde struggles to lift a greatsword--wondering why in the seven she would start with such a difficult weapon when it’s clear she’s never held even a training sword before. Cory doesn’t seem to stop blinking either, making Brienne concerned dust or dirt have gone into her eyes.

“Ser Brienne~” she says, her tone lilted and Brienne is concerned she might be catching an illness as well.

“Yes, Lady Wylde?”

“I can’t seem to lift this heavy, heavy sword.” Cory wipes the back of her hand across her forehead in a slow motion. Perhaps she is about to faint from the heat? “Could you lend me a hand?”

Brienne looks at the sword, then Cory, who is bent down quite a bit, which makes the collar of her shirt go lower. Perhaps Brienne ought to tell her, lest her father be informed of her improper neckline. 

“Certainly,” she finally settles on, crossing the yard with her hand on the hilt of Oathkeeper. She’d been sparring with Ronald earlier, before he’d given up in frustration and stormed away somewhere into the castle.

Brienne lifts the greatsword with one hand and only a little pant. Cory Wylde’s eyes have gone big as saucers. “...my Lady?”

“Yes?” Cory breathes. 

“Are you ill?”

Cory looks started, but it’s gone in an instant. “Were I, could you nurse me?”

“I know little of the healing arts.”

“Maybe just keep me company at my bedside then?”

Brienne manages a wane smile. “I’m afraid I know even less of songs.”

“Then it seems I’ve made a remarkable recovery.” Cory sounds bitter, and Brienne is unsure as to why. “Maybe you can help me with my form then?” She tries to reach for the greatsword and Brienne steps away.

“It would be better to start with training swords, my lady.”

“Well maybe I want _you_ to help me lift.”

Brienne blinks. “For what reason?”

Cory’s hands go to her hips. She purses her lips, and Brienne believes she is...pouting. “You are either hard to tempt or girls don’t ring your bells. Which is it?”

Brienne feels as though her body is incapable of movement. “You-?”

“Playing coy or no girls. Which is it? I don’t mind the former, but know I will outlast any games you attempt to play.”

“I…” Brienne can hardly understand the situation between Cory’s brash words and even _considering_ … “I am afraid I am uninterested, my Lady.”

“In girls or in me? Wait, no, it doesn’t matter.” Cory rolls her eyes, completely bored with the sword now. “I suppose I’ll have to go find that barmaid again-”

Brienne’s eyes go wide.

“-or the cook-”

She parts her lips, mainly in surprise.

“-or that faster soldier of Lord Gendry’s. The one with those blue eyes. Is he into girls?”

“Lady Cory-”

“Don’t worry. I’ll find out for myself.” Cory nods, mind already elsewhere. “You’ve very nice arms.”

“I. Thank you.”

“Put them to good use, even if it’s not with me.” Cory winks.

And Brienne stands there, eyes wide in shock and jaw a little slack.

What a crude girl.


	14. Podrick: Fucking Mead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone asked for an update to Pod's list :'D set sometime during Chapter 19!

Pod frowns, looking at both of them. “In front of our merchants?”

Gendry scowls, eyes going to the floor. Arya raises her brows and crosses her arms as if to say _try me._

“I’m not mad,” Pod says. “Just disappointed.”

“‘m not apologizing to them,” Gendry mutters.

“They shouldn't have looked in the cart,” Arya says, matter-of-fact.

Pod shakes his head slightly. “It was _their_ cart.”

“Not right then it wasn’t,” Gendry adds.

Pod has such a headache. “They were in charge of supplying the mead.”

“Guess we can’t get married now,” Gendry says, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “We don’t have _mead_.”

“Oh no,” Arya deadpans.

Pod squeezes his eyes closed and counts to five. For a Lord and Lady, they were often children and planning their wedding had been an exercise in self-control. And wrangling. And now, apparently, reminding them not to fuck in carts full of mead. Mead-fucking-carts.

“Try not to do it in the middle of the day.” A sigh, feeling defeat as soon as he says it. So he immediately adds: “At least not on other people’s things.”

Arya sends Gendry a side glance. Gendry grunts. She nods.

“We’ll hold off until the wedding’s over,” she counters.

It’s really all he can ask for. “I suppose that’s good enough.”

\--

The next morning, he makes sure to send the visiting merchants enough dragons to purchase the now tainted drinks.


	15. Rusty Horse: Hm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crossover with the witcher. complete crack. i dont know why i wrote this.

That other one was too close. Rusty Horse lets out a short huff to indicate such. When they don’t move, he decides to stomp his front hooves. Once. Twice.

They still don’t move.

His next huff a little louder, Rusty Horse cranes his neck to see the intruder. Roach, the man who smells bad had called her. She stares back at him impassively, then bends down and eats _his_ apple.

No! Rusty Horse snorts, butting his snout against the side of her neck in an attempt to get her to drop it. 

Roach’s eyes roll to him, slowly. Then the sound of a crunch echoes, slowly. As Roach chews Rusty Horse’s treat, slowly.

No!! 

Rusty Horse takes a half-step back, preparing to rear up and stomp Roach to death with his fucking hooves*-

Then Roach _coughs_ out _his_ apple. _Like it’s not good enough_. It plops to the ground, both horses looking at it intently. 

He’s not going to lower himself into eating the rest of it. Mainly because he physically can’t--the inn the grumpy human had stopped at was busy, with only one stall available that he had to share with this monster (only one stall).

Rusty Horse’s head darts up in betrayal and accusation. She didn’t even want it!

Roach smacks her lips, like trying to get a bad taste out of her mouth. Rusty Horse stomps even harder. She sends him a slow glance, then rests her head on the stall door.

And goes to sleep.

No!!!

Rusty Horse moves to body check her.

\--

Something’s off about that man in the awful clothes. Gendry keeps his attention steady on him as Hot Pie pours him another ale. The white-haired man sits by himself on the opposite side of the inn, leaning back in his seat and only offering monosyllabic grunts to anyone who approached. 

“He’s big, innit he?” Hot Pie asks, sitting across from Gendry after he tops off his ale. 

“Not that big,” Gendry mutters.

“Prolly bigger than you.” 

“No he’s not.”

“Think so. More like it’s supposed to be in the books.” Hot Pie nods, contemplative. “Want me to see how tall he is, too?”

“ _No_.” Gendry scowls, then mutters: “I’m like in the books.”

“You’re alright,” Hot Pie agrees. “But the haircut wasn’t a good move.”

Gendry glares at Hot Pie, then glares at the white-haired stranger. He already doesn’t like him since his ( _uglier_ ) horse took up the stall he usually put Rusty Horse in. “Why’s he here, anyway?”

“Dunno. If we find his bard he’ll probably tell us. Though we’d have to pay-”

Gendry’s grip tightens on his tankard. Now there’s _musicians_.

Hot Pie blinks rapidly when he takes in Gendry’s stormy expression. Then he looks at the stranger, then Gendry, then the stranger, then Gendry, then the-

“Knock it off. He can tell you’re staring,” Gendry mumbles.

...then back to Gendry. “...are you still mad about the horse thing?”

“ ‘m not mad,” Gendry says, madly.

-

Roach hasn’t stopped judging this stupid horse since he invaded her stall. His attempt to tackle her easily thwarted when she back-kicked him into a corner. Now he was sulking, facing the other side of the stall and sending her accusatory glances with a lowered head. 

Spoiled.

Emphasized by the fact that he is trying not to show he’s cold. Roach feels her own heavy, weighted, and warm blanket and looks at him.

Rusty Horse paws at the ground with his front-left hoof, head still hanging low in a sulk.

She ignores him. But then he lets out a low whinny. 

Roach snorts and lets out a _nrhgmph_ ** before standing next to him and sharing the blanket. 

\--

“You leaving?”

Geralt looks up from securing his cloak, not surprised to see the angry man from before. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“Hm.”

The angry man works his jaw, then tries too hard to make his shrug look nonchalant. “Saw you had a horse.”

A better one. “I do.”

“Good.”

“Hm.”

Geralt stares at the man. Geralt stares at the man. 

“Are you taking the musician with you?” The man asks, an edge to the question that lets Geralt know it’s not really a request.

“Not if I can help it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Neither do I.”

The man scoffs. “What? Don’t like your own bard?”

“No.”

The man nods slowly as an understanding is reached. “Hm.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees.

“Well. Here.” The man digs into his travel pack, eventually pulling out an apple. “Your horse didn’t look as good as my horse.”

“That apple’s not going to help things.”

The man narrows his eyes, offended. “Hm.”

“Hm.” Geralt takes the apple anyway. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” the man says. “Next time don’t use Rusty Horse’s stall.”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time.”

“Hm.”

“Hm.”

-

Little did they both know, the threads of the shared blanket between Rusty Horse and Roach were also the threads of a 30,000+ word, slow-burn epic. 

-

*Penned by Ser John Mulaney, Year of the Horse

**Rough translation to human: “Hm. Fuck.”


End file.
